Paper Flowers
by ketamine.methanol
Summary: Craig's got it in for Kyle Broflovski. Cryle M for language, themes and sexuality in future chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Fff no better time to start another story, amirite? Yeah.. go me.**

**Nghrrp.**

**Whatever, idk. This kind of came to me as a drabble idea originally, but then it kind of developed into a story. There will probably be more chapters.**

**I think I just needed to get a stalkerfiction out of my system.**

**I also surprisingly don't glorify Craig a lot in my literature, considering he's my favourite character. But whatever.**

**Hope you like it so far.**

**Enjoy~**

---

He doesn't have too many or too few freckles. There's just this perfect number. I count them in class, from behind him, where the smell of some fragrance of TAG bodyspray and Dove shampoo linger over my desk. On the left side of his neck, there's one hundred and ninety-four that go over the shoulder, that i've noticed from the few times he's worn a wife beater in class. Occasionally a few disappear here and there with the seasons I guess. On the right side there's two hundred-something. Usually class is over by the time I get to two hundred and seventy.

His hair is always clean. Everything about Kyle is clean - it's just something that he is. A clean person. Well kept - pampered, even. Overall an attractive person in the line of hygienics. Actually, I think that he's the cleanest person in the school. Even more than the girls.

I'm passing advanced English this year and it's all because of Kyle. Because he sits at the front of the class and I sit behind him. I have to - I wanted to, so I did. I think maybe it's unhealthy, how much I enjoy sitting behind the red head... but I love it.

I love Kyle Broflovski.

Maybe. Not in the, in-love sense, really. Not even in the 'oh, Kyle? I love that guy!' sense. No, it's maybe not love. Maybe just an infatuation. Whatever it is, it's lasted since the seventh grade, when I got partnered with him on a field trip to the zoo. We sat beside eachother on the school bus and it was like... I don't even know. He's just attractive. I'm sorry that all I can come up with but, dude, I'm not a man of big words. Just metaphors and boring shit. I like people who don't like to do anything too complex. Kyle is one of these people, his friends are just a minor distraction in my big plan. But I want him.

He entices me.

"Craig, are you sniffing my hair?"

"No. I'm copying your notes." I raise my middle finger for emphasis.

That was too fucking close.

He glances at my paper as though to double check that I'm not actually sniffing his hair like I totally was before shaking it off and turning away. Fuck, that was _way_ too fucking close. I lean back and start to pretend to write. Shit, maybe I should just write down what I'm thinking. No, that's a terrible idea. If he actually tries to read my notes he'll know that I've been sniffing his hair. That I've been sniffing him generally since we were bus seat buddies on the way to the _Centre of Animal Captivity _(as I like to call it).

My pencil just broke. I think I'm writing this Shakespeare shit too hard.

What am I gonna do now?

I raise my eyes to the back of Kyle's head. His curls poke out from under his green ushanka and I run my tongue over my chapped lower lip back and forth for a few moments before hitting him in the back of the shoulder. Hard.

"What the fuck do you want, Craig?"

I hold up my pencil.

He glares, but digs into his case and hands me one reluctantly.

It has his name written across it.

That's so fucking hilarious I could almost laugh. Almost.

"Make sure you give it back, dude, it's one of my last ones."

I start to chew on the eraser as I raise my middle finger at him again with risen brows, and he rolls his eyes and turns away angrily, starting to write his notes even faster.

Oh my god, he's never getting this pencil back.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Haha, this is a fast update. but they're pretty short, so whatevah. AH do what AH WANT. Thanks for the quick reviews you guys! It was a pleasure to wake up to, and I'm glad you're at least amused so far.**

**Enjoy~**

---

I want to kick someone in the teeth.

Hard.

We're at his house because I know that if he came to mine, he'd give my mom the finger and that would be the end of my life as a student of South Park High. I know it. It's an unavoidable outcome. Some might say I have good intuition, but seriously, it's just common sense and nothing else.

There isn't a passing day where Craig Tucker hasn't raised his middle finger a minimum of thirty times, and most of them are directed at a teacher, or me.

Which is why I'm so pissed off that we were paired for this project in the first place.

And even more pissed off, because I'm so sure he's sniffing me again.

I whip my head in his direction as he leans over my shoulder, resting his chin there and gazing down at the action plan for dividing our work says that I've already written up. I try hard not to punch him in the face for touching me.

"I don't want to do the research. That's the most boring part."

I sigh, switching him with editing.

"And my spelling sucks."

"Well what the hell do you expect, Craig? I'm not doing the whole fucking thing by myself, as easier as that as beginning to seem."

I hate how he's looking at me. I swear, this must be a vendetta from Peru that has stuck with him for all of these years, because he never gives me peace. Between the mockery and the uncomfortable lurking, I just don't want to deal with this anymore. I'd rather be paired with Cartman. _Cartman_. At least he has more than rocks in his head, despite being the biggest douche bag of all time. But Cartman isn't even in my advanced English class, so the lesser of two evils was not available to be a choice.

He's still staring at my notes over my shoulder, and I finally get the nerve to shove him off, watching him barrel roll across the carpet of his bedroom, laying like a dead fish on the floor. Taking an irritable breath through my nose at his silence, I turn at him with narrowed eyes. There seems to only be the way of politeness to get through this - it's my last option.

"What would you like to do?"

"Um, I don't know. Maybe go to a movie or something later..."

I sigh. "In reference to the project, Craig."

He looks at me slowly. "Dude, I've read MacBeth, like, three times over. We don't even have to go through the first fifty steps of your mission plan. It's a summary project, dude. We only have one page between the two of us. Why are you drawing things out so unnecessarily?"

I stare at him, but to be honest, I'm kind of wondering this a bit myself. Excuse time. "Because I want to make sure we split everything fairly."

He sits up off the floor and sighs, giraffe-craning across his floor to pull open the drawer of his bed side table and pulling out a pack of smokes, lighting one up. "So you want to take this over a course of a week instead of one night, because you are so hellbent on not sitting and working together with me?"

Shit. Maybe he's sharper than I thought he was. Crumpling my paper up in defeat, I throw it at his garbage can, and slide my hands against eachother slowly in preparation for my own torture.

"Alright. Lets do this."

He nods, taking a seat beside me. We're so close we're thigh to thigh, and I'm not sure if I should feel uncomfortable or not. Stan and I sit like this all the fucking time for projects, but then again, we're actually friends. Shaking it off for now, I pick up our papers and stack them neatly, before picking up my pencil. He likewise picks up his - no, my pencil, but it's so gnawed on I don't say anything about it for it back. No wonder Craig has such fucked up teeth.

He pauses, and then reaches over to the radio. At first I expect something really stupid but his radio station is actually the one I listen to, so I don't mind. He cracks his knuckles, and then licks his lips, before speaking at last.

"So she wipes the blood off of her hands as an icon of guilt from the crimes..."

The fucking hick _would _start with the blood.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Yeah. woo. tadaaa. It's like 6AM and I said I was going to bed like an hour ago. I must have lied because this chapter flew at me like a bat out of hell.**

**So here it is.**

**I'm going to go deliriously lay in bed until I fall asleep now.**

**Enjoy~**

---

Kyle seems pleased with the music on the radio station and I'm glad, mostly because I know this is his favourite radio station, and because I had the foresight to change it to just that before he came over.

I'm a creep. A loser, maybe.

He's working hard writing his notes down. I just kind of watch while I talk. It's nice to see him work from a different angle than behind him in class. My tongue keeps finding my lower lip, and I realize that it's probably so chapped from doing this in school, over and over, staring at the redhead now leg to leg with me.

A real creep.

But I don't feel guilty at all. If he hasn't noticed then all shame is washed away. I like things typical and boring and this is probably the most satisfactory moment I could ask for outside of any moment with Tweek. Don't get my wrong, the kid's my best friend and twitchy as fuck, but he's a really chill person if you ignore the fact that he probably has some off-centre, undiagnosed tourettes and a panic and anxiety disorder that will probably turn him into a serial killer some day. Then there's the OCD, the paranoia, the voices...

Uh, yeah. Kyle is like stepping out into the nice warm weather from an already perfectly tempered pool. It's just relaxing. Like, you lay on the deck. And everything's cool.

"You still there?"

Kyle's looking at me with risen brows and I blink slightly, lifting my shoulders as I spittle out a lie. "Fucking tired. Want a coffee?"

He offers an innocent no thanks and I stand up, taking my leave. I need a breather. This is probably the most time I've ever spent in the same vicinity as Kyle Broflovski outside of the occasional house party and our English and Math classes. Even better, he's in my house. If I wanted, I could get my sister to lock us down and probably just have my way with the goddamn Jew. But I'm not so tactless. Something of such desperation would be up to maybe... yeah, I don't even know. Just, lets stick with simplicity and common sense here, okay?

My coffee's black, just out of habit. Black like my metal, which is in high contrast to the top-one-hundred and soft alternative rock shit that Kyle's got playing upstairs right now. When you know someone like Tweek Tweak you just become accustomed to certain things. If things fall out of order for Tweek, it's like, a 15 minute calm-down process. And worse, he only listens to me. So when my mom screws something up it's even worse.

But anyway.

Trudging up the stairs I can hear some kind of electronic-kinda song getting louder, and then a voice over it as I approach my door, mug in both hands.

Kyle's gyrating his body from side to side like some kind of snake, singing along to the... to the...

"Next time, baby, I'll beeeee...

bullettttttprooooof...

Next time, baby, I'll beeeee...

bulletttttproooof..."

I wonder if he notices me staring. Probably not. It's a good thing expression isn't really my thing because I at least can't feel my enstartlement on my face, but my hands are going slack as I raise my eyebrows, trying to catch my coffee before it slips even though my eyes are stuck on the rotating hips and waist of the redhead writing notes in front of me.

And then he's down on his hands and knees. Probably to get closer to his paper. But I have no complains. I can feel my hot coffee dribbling over my hand as I get the fullest of views, and then finally turn back down the hallway. No use walking in with a boner over what appears to be coffee instead of Kyle's sweet ass.

So I sit on the toilet seat for a moment with said coffee.

_Evaluate what just happened, Craig._

I take a long sip. Yes, yes. That was definitely real. Actually I think I stood there long enough to hear the end of the song and the radio lady thing on the speaker. Bulletproof... but some artist I don't know. Oh, what fuckin' ever. I'll google that shit. I need that song on my iPod to jack off to for the rest of my life.

I take another long sip.

"Dude, the fuck's taking you so long? I'm almost done." Kyle's voice from down the hall...

Fuck. I stare down at the front of my pants like I'm discovering this for the first time, wondering how obvious I am. I need to think of something... something terrible.

My guinea pig died two years ago.

Done deal, goodbye boner. Hello emotional side I don't want to think about. I give my bathtub a dirty look and walk back into my bedroom, where Kyle's no longer with his ass dancing in the air, asking me to fuck it into my blue plush carpet.

Licking lips.

"Sorry. Distracted."

A roll of the eyes and he's none the wiser.

I need to prolong my time with him as much as possible.

"Say. You wanna do some shit after to celebrate or somethin'?"

He glances at me. He looks weirded out but I know better, and he's too polite to reject sometimes. Especially when I tilt my head over my coffee and give him a totally blank stare that could to someone be read as innocent.

"Yeah. Uh.. okay. Anything you had in mind?"

I roll my head back, kind of curious. And then it hits me. Kyle Broflovski has never dated a person in his whole life. He's so straight-laced I'm pretty sure his ribs don't even curve in his perfect little chest. I lick my lips, deciding it's time to test the waters as to whether the Jew is a fag or not.

"Raisins or somethin'?"

He offers the ceiling a blank look, before nodding and shuffling our papers together, stuffing them in his folder after writing both our names on it.

"Yeah, cool. Lets go."

Victory is mine.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Another story update. Go, me, go.**

**Craig still remains my fav character in the series. I don't know. I think I can relate to him best, mostly because I'm pretty dogmatic myself.**

**But whatevs~**

**Enjoy. **

---

Even the way he eats, I find myself able to romanticize it. Actually, I'm pretty sure he must be retarded if he hasn't noticed the amount of attention I'm paying to his mouth while I attempt to occupy my own in various ways, such as.. well, chewing. I don't get why he has to be so... good looking. Delicious, if you will, though he's not much of a food. More of a candy of the eye, if you get what I mean.

He doesn't have the grace to take his hat off at the table but I don't mind; I can pick out those red curls even from across our two-seater and he busies himself politely with his chicken dish thing that I don't remember the exact name of. On a normal day I would have it written down but I'm not about to pull out a piece of paper and start writing down his meal plan right under his nose.

He's glancing at me and he's looking irritated. Yep, here it comes.

"Are you gonna eat at all?"

"It's hot."

"Well you do look a little flustered."

I present him with my middle finger as his sass and he rolls his eyes, probably wondering why he'd ever agreed to this. I'm growing on him, though. I know I am. I have to be; there's no way he'd spend this much time with me out of politeness. He may have manners but the red head in front of me is a little firecracker and I know he'd readily punch my lights out if he felt the need to.

I'm bigger than him, though.

Taking a shot in the dark I knock my foot forward, bumping it against his shin. His shoulders jerk up from the obvious sting and he glares at me a moment, and I raise my eyebrows with a feigned innocence that makes him scowl. There's a number of things I'd like to do to that scowl. In the last few hours though I'm pretty sure I've hooked at least most of his expressions, with the exception of, maybe, a sex face or a smile. But you never know, sometimes people's sex faces look the same as their embarrassed faces. Why I'm even consulting this over the dinner table is questionable, but as he lifts a piece of chicken to his mouth I kick his shin again and a tight noise escapes his throat as the piece of meat drops to his plate as he jerks forward.

"Would you fucking stop?"

I just smirk and kick him again.

His foot connects with my chair's leg in seconds as I forecast the sing and he cusses even louder, gripping his foot under the table as I look on triumphantly. A piece of me should probably feel bad for bringing harm to the object of my infatuation but he technically brought that one upon himself. He glares at me over the food finally, and I lean back in my seat with my arms folded across my chest.

"What is your fucking problem, dude? I don't get you at all."

"I have no problem." Unless you account undressing your classmates with your eyes a problem. "What're you so pissed for all the time?"

"Dude, you're kicking me under the fucking table like you have a tick. I think I have a little bit of a reason to get pissed off about that."

"Don't worry, the swim team won't judge."

The way he's looking at me honestly flies right into my pants. Maybe I get off on being hated, who knows, but he's glaring Jew-daggers and I am becoming totally not against just jumping his bones right here.

"I'm leaving."

His chair slides back with a grind and he digs into his bag, pulling out a ten dollar note and sticking it onto the table to pay for his half of the bill when abruptly our waitress bumps into him, and he stares at her as she smiles.

"Hey, ho-on. Where you off to? Y'can't seriously be leavin' us already, can you?" Her valley girl accent could have killed me but I'm not the openly laughing type.

Kyle looks so conflicted it's almost got me in stitches though, and he frowns as she escorts him back to his seat and leans down to press plump glossed lips to his cheek. The way his eye twitches puts me over the edge and I lean down to sip my drink before I spittle with laughter.

"I... please don't touch me," he says finally, still maintaining enough of his polite nature to fend her off without insulting her as she laughs at a pitch that hurts even my ears.

"Alright there dollface, you jus' keep yourself happy then, alright? If you need anythin', doll, you jus' call me up and I'll get you anything you darn well want."

She wanders away busily and my eyes glide back to Kyle, who's looking uncomfortable. He stares at his chicken for a moment before back up at me, until he finally goes to pierce his food with his fork.

"You're totally a fag, aren't you, Broflovski?"

The chicken goes flying again as he stares up at me with wide eyes. Damn, I hope that's his sex face.

"What?"

"I said you're fucking gay. You didn't even look at her tits."

"You know, there is public etiquette. It does exist."

"Who gives a fuck? You're a guy."

He falls silent and stares at me before setting down his glass and casting his eyes after her, as though contemplating his own sexuality. In turn I lean back with my coke still at hand and take a side-of-the-mouth sip with my hat sliding over my eyes. He sighs and then rests his mouth in his palm with his elbow on the table as he grabs his drink, looking defeated.

I smirk. "I knew it."

"You're not the first, jackass."

"Well it's no shock you and your friends are all fags, you're practically blowing eachother all the time."

"I hate you, Craig. It's just me, that I know of. Kenny isn't gay. He willingly fucks whatever gives him the opportunity."

I fight back the urge to say 'I know' in the most suggestive of ways, mostly because I'm trying to bed the red head and not gross him out.

Much.

"So, are you a virgin?"

His expressions of horror just get more and more priceless every time.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: surprise it's an update hoo haaa hooray. thanks for your reviews guys, and thanks for the love! seriously i'm pleased to know that people are liking this fic, so sorry for the lazy updates. life is still kicking my ass some. so yeah, love and such.**

**enjoy~**

---

I stare. It's all I can do. My dignity is at stake here on two whole different levels and it's a lose-lose situation. I can lie and be made fun of and feel stupid or I can be honest and be made fun of and feel stupid anyway.

Humiliation, I think, is a talent of Craig Tucker's, and the way he's looking at me only makes me feel worse, too.

"Maybe I'm a virgin, maybe I'm not. So what?"

"So you _are _a virgin."

I descend my forehead against the L of my thumb and index finger and sigh, aware with irritation that I'm going scarlet. I hate Craig Tucker. I hate him so much. I have the advantage though; being in the company of Eric Cartman for 17 years teaches you a special talent, and that's how to play fire with fire in the land of assholery. I give him a serious look and try to put on my most cynical face.

"Are _you _a virgin?"

He looks genuinely taken aback by the defence and I can't help but let a smirk touch the corner of my mouth. These games are so easy to win.

"No. Actually, I'm pretty sure everyone isn't, except for you. Fatso probably has gotten laid before you. Your only competition could be the goth kids, but only because _sex is so conformist these days_."

I take a slow breath through my nose and knead my fingers in the material of my pants at his nasally imitation of Red goth's drawl.

"At least I can proudly say I've managed to chastise myself this long." Which is total bullshit. My mom always told my brother and I we'd go blind if we masturbated, and trust me when I say I wear really thick reading glasses.

"I'm not sure what to believe, Broflovski." He leans his chin in his palm with that crooked little grin. At this range I get too close of an inspection, down to the deeper blue colour of his eyes. My thoughts flutter and I lean back in hesitation, grabbing my glass only to put it between us and sip it wearily. There is a contest here. I'm starting to feel it more and more as he stares me down. A moment of Stan flashes through me as I feel kind of like throwing up but it passes and I lower my head a bit, searching for some kind of response as the silence creeps on.

"You should spend the night at my house." The way he's looking at me disturbs me more. I'm gripping my glass a bit tighter. It's not even a weary feeling or anything like that, it's that his expression looks entirely innocent.

There is nothing innocent about Craig Fucking Tucker.

"Craig? I don't like you. I've never liked you. You are the biggest asshole I've ever met, and I am willingly admitting this all to you. I think you're a creepy prick and I know that you sniff my hair in class." I leave the burn in the air a moment before continuing. "There is no fucking way in any sideways depth of hell that I am _ever _going to spend any night with you anywhere, _especially _at your house."

This seems to have hit a place in his little black heart, or so I hope, because he looks at me with a frown - not a glare, or surprise, or anything like that. Just a frown. He maintains this expression for a minute longer before he laughs it off like nothing.

"Are you fucking nuts, Broflovski? Firstly, I don't give half a shit what you think about me. I haven't given a shit about what you thought from day one, when you and your stupid friends robbed me of a hundred bucks in Peru. Secondly, I am not sniffing your hair, and I don't know where the fuck you could have gotten such a fucked up idea from. And thirdly, you _have _to sleep at my house tonight."

I narrow my eyes.

"And why is that?"

Craig grins sickeningly, and I feel my throat tighten with that glance alone.

"Because if you don't, you're going to be out of the closet a _lot _sooner than you intended."

He pulls out his cellphone and waves it in the air with a threatening look that makes me think once about my mother's face and go pale.

I fucking _hate _Craig Tucker.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Mmmm. Craig's creepy. God, I can not have sleep overs with touchy-feely people. This is why.**

**Another update will be up along soon and quicker, hopefully. I have the next one thought out quite well.**

**Enjoy~.**

---

Kyle Broflovski is laying in my bed.

It took walking him home and almost telling his mom from the front doorstep that I was his boyfriend, but he's in my bed.

I am sooooo happy.

You don't even know. You couldn't know - couldn't understand. It's to my assumption you have not had an obsession before like I do - or maybe you have. Who knows?

But Kyle is in my bed. With me.

He looks ready to kill, and I just grin.

"I don't want you to touch me. I don't even want us to make eye contact. I hate you. I hate you so much."

"You're just a sore loser."

"This isn't a fucking _game_! It's _blackmail_! You grabbed my _ass _in front of my little brother!"

"He's probably just as much as a fag as you are, Broflovski. Might as well expose him early," I drawl while flipping him off; things are as they should be.

He's so angry. I could almost laugh. Almost.

"I can't believe you. You're such a creepy freak. I can't believe I trusted you for a second."

He's hammering away with both thumbs on the keyboard of his Blackberry. I glance at my simple generic flip phone on it's charger on my side-table, recalling the time when Blackberry cellphones were a rarity to that of high-class business men only. I see kids walking around with those things. It's almost makes me feel a bit nostalgic.

"You're so tight."

His head whips around. "Excuse me?"

"I said you're so uptight."

He stares at me, disbelieving, and I just let my grin creep. I know I'm a freak. I know I'm a stalker. I know that I now have my stalkee around my baby finger. I know that Kyle is now staring at the little grave stone inside Stripes' old cage and giving it an awkward stare of horror now that he's noticed there's nothing alive in it. Being someone who doesn't like change, I'm a sentimental kind of guy. No, actually, I just didn't feel like carrying the cage out of my room. Anyone who says something has sentiment was just too fucking lazy to throw it out, and I am the prime example of that theory.

"So, Kyle. Who are you texting?"

"Fuck off."

"Oh, alright. So, who are you texting?"

He turns and glares at me, and I roll onto my back with my hip to the back of his thigh, folding my arms behind my head. "Look, Kyle, I never asked you to stay here."

This fires him up and I just grin more. "What the fuck are you talking about!? This is all your fucking fault!"

"Yeah, maybe. But I still never asked you to stay here."

"You ordered me to stay here. You blackmailed me into staying here."

"Admit that it hasn't been that bad. Come on. I haven't touched you. We haven't made eye contact. I've kept up with everything you've wanted me to do." He turns over with his upper body propped up by his elbows and gives me the flattest, most hateful look I've ever received. I think it would be wrong for be to get off to this kind of thing but I don't care; I swallow in anticipation as he reviews his options in his head, before he settles back down beside me again.

"Turn off the light. We're going to sleep."

I oblige. Lapsed into darkness, he clears his throat before sliding under the covers with me and rolling over so that he's facing away. That works for me.

Twenty minutes pass and his breathing has slowed to a pace that tells me that he's asleep. I'll admit it - I've watched him sleep before. But not at this kind of proximity, and it's a good view, too - right next to him, that is. I lean over a little, weighing my chances as I prop up on my elbows and then slip a hand forward, touching his shoulder.

He doesn't even react, just continues to sleep soundly. Licking my lips slowly, my hand starts its blind journey through the dark. I let our skin make contact under the covers, fingertips creeping down the slowly rising and falling shape of his chest. I graze each rib individually, keeping a mental count before I let them tickle over his stomach. His breath jumps a bit at this contact and I freeze, but he soon resumes and my mission continues. An innie bellybotton and protruding hipbones fit the contours of his body just right.

I try to commit these touches to memory, leaving every moment tense in the air of my room. I note that his scent will probably be pressed into my sheets in the morning and I consider seriously not doing my laundry for the first time in my life.

He stirs and I draw my hand back, but maintain my position. His figure rolls and I keep my eye on my prize as he slips onto his side, facing me now with his hands curled up against his collarbone just under his chin. I'm finding that I'm swallowing a lot more than I normally would, mostly because I'm salivating. A lot. Nervous habit, so fucking sue me.

Kyle's hands are my present objects of interest, though. I'm kind of upset that he sleeps in this ball shape and not splayed-out like I know I do, because then I might be able to touch them undetected. His face is so serene that that would be my other reason for not waking him up, aside from the fact that I'm totally molesting him in his sleep here.

Gain comes with a price though, and I decide to take the chance.

I peel one of his hands away from his body slowly, and lay back down beside him as I admire the shape of the appendage in my grasp. His fingers curl with his unconscious state and they have a neat slope to them, leading up to trimmed nails. I squint to get a better look, unsurprised to find them clean. I finally let his hand go and it snaps back into him, curling against him once more. His body shifts as he swallows and I lift my eyes to catch his tongue dip out over his lower lip, dampening it slowly. If I wasn't so certain he was sleeping, I'd accuse him of mocking me.

I lay so we're nose to nose. In his dreams he doesn't notice. For me, this is a dream. This is the kid who's hair I sniff in class. This kid laying so close to me right now is the one I've been pining over for years, whether it's total infatuation or not I'm not sure. I lick my own lips in a hungry manner, and look up, holding my breath. For a moment I'm so sure he was just staring at me. Holy shit. I catch my breath again, anticipating some kind of punch to the gut, but it doesn't come. Hesitantly I lean my head forward, and let our lips brush.

There's a pause before I press against him more firmly. His muscles twitch and I have the sense to pull back and snap my eyes shut. He sighs something in his sleep or not-sleep and sits up slowly, doing something. What? I don't know. Maybe rubbing his eyes, or nibbling on one of those fingers. I let my eyes slip open a sliver before opening them fully, trying to feign a sleepy-face.

"What is it?"

He glanced down at me, looking tired and irritable. I think he sees right through me. I really do. He takes the top blanket of my bed and slides his legs from under the covers, draping the blanket more personally around himself and curling up again with his back toward me.

I can feel panic rising. He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows.

He stills and sighs contently in his sleep.

He doesn't know.

My hand travels down the front of my boxers with my throat tight as I slide my eyes closed, willing myself to a quick climax after some ten minutes of focused jacking. Relieved, I wipe my hand after pulling a tissue and manage to fall asleep with my face pressed into his shoulder, his scent still fresh in my nostrils as I doze off.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Short chapters. I'm so bad with these. But hopefully this will satisfy for now. If you don't find this chapter that interesting, the next one will be. P:**

**Enjoy.**

Showering in other people's houses was never my forte.

Not even Stan's. There's always that nervous paranoia. I can't stand it. I need the privacy and comfort of my own home. But I need this one shower more than anything, and as I glance around at the tiled wall and the misted shower door, I feel it sinking in.

Fear.

Not a lot of things scare me. But today, I am scared. I'm piss-frightened of everything, and I just want to get out of his house - Craig's house.

I've wanted to be home from the moment he blackmailed me into coming here in the first place. Now, I'm not sure if I even care if he tells my parents about my homosexuality; I just want to leave. I want to be anywhere but here.

Breath hitching somewhere in my throat, I try to wipe away the memory of a hand gliding over my stomach in the dark. My panic kept me silent then and it's keeping me silent now as I reflect the violations to my own body in the shower. I press my palms to my eyes, wondering what sort of trap I've walked myself into. I feel like I've been raped, and I've never had a sexual experience past my own hand.

All the touches, even the kiss, even the sounds of him jacking off against my back aside - that is not what frightens me the most. It's _his_ fear that gets me - it's the fact that _he_ was afraid. I roll back to the moment I'd had enough - when I felt him closing in to make out with me in my apparent sleep, when I pushed myself away to wrap my arms around myself defensively.

I watched him feign sleep, expression mixed with nerves and horror, the expression I'd been working hard to restrain from my face with a prayer scraping its way out of my core that that had been a dream, and it would stop soon.

I stare at the_ Head and Shoulders _shampoo bottle on the side of the tub, unwilling to touch it. I don't want to smell like him. I don't want his odour clinging to me any closer than from his bedsheets. I don't want to think about how my own personally scent is probably clinging to my half of his pillow from the night before, and how perhaps, at the end of today, he might touch himself to that scent like he did to my simple presence in bed beside him.

I can almost feel the heat of his breath once more on the back of my neck from eight hours prior, but my common sense alerts me that it's the steam of the shower lingering around my form and not Craig Tucker. The name alone sends discomfort climbing a weary path up my spine, and I give my hair a better rinse before shutting the water off and standing still to listen.

The cold catches me fast, and I step from the shower wearily, drying off and dressing. I'm glad I had the foresight to bring my clothes with me; I don't want him to see me naked. I don't want a sliver of skin to reach his eyes at all.

He's fully dressed after I enter his bedroom, combing his hair with some kind of favour. As if it needs to be combed - I don't understand it. It's thin and wiry, much like Stan's, and neither of them have a curl to worry about. For that I'm jealous; I would kill to look normal, like the rest of my friends.

His eyes look me over, from the wet mess of my hair wrapped in a white towel down the rest of my body to where my toes are hidden in my socks. Self-consciously, I grab at my elbows with my arms folded across my torso, as though this will shield me from his wandering eyes. With anyone else, I would not feel so small under their gaze - but I'm afraid. How could I not be?

"Can we leave soon?"

My voice is trained and normal. I'm more scared that he'll find out I know than the fact that I know in general. I think it would be scarier, however, if I didn't know.

But I didn't. I was suspicious, but never sure. He's a better actor than me - his facade is casual and simple, but now I'm seeing past it with my knew knowledge. The twitch of his hands as he nods in response to my earlier question, and the uncertainty to his actions; the feign of an innocent nudge as he brushes by me to grab his book bag. I could vomit at the feeling of his thigh pressed against mine, and I wonder if he's aware he's doing it, or if it's really just an accidental crossing of limbs because I'm in his way.

I recoil and stand by his bed instead. He looked up at me curiously and I retain my passive look, instead peeling the towel from my hair and shaking it out. My curls hang limply around my head, a reflection of the hopelessness I'm feeling stirring within me. Nothing is the same. I want to go home - I don't want to leave my house. I feel like I'm in danger even though I'm in the house of one of my classmates. I need something, anything.

"Kyle? Are you there?"

"Yeah." I raise my hand to my eyes and rub them individually. "I'm not a morning person."

He gives me a queer look that suggests that he knows something I don't, but turns and picks my bag up off the ground, tossing it to me. I catch it with reluctance, and we leave, my hair springing up as it dries during the silent car ride.

My classes pass slowly.

I'm inattentive.

I feel ill and unmotivated to do anything, mostly because I know that English is my last class today, and English class is where Craig sits behind me.

He sniffs my hair. I know he does.

"Kyle? You alright, dude?"

Stan stares at me over our notes in Biology and I nod, forcing a smile. "Yeah, dude. Why?"

He's disbelieving and I can tell, because he's doing that risen eyebrow thing. "You seem completely out of it, man. You getting sick or something?"

I can feel the corners of my lips tremble, threatening to drop my pleasant expression. "Maybe. I dunno. If I feel shittier later maybe I'll leave early."

He nods, shrugs, and turns away, leaving me to dampen my lips from their dryness due to nerves. The time ticks closer to the end of Biology and the beginning of English. The illness weighing me down mentally and physically hits full force on the walk between classes. I stop off in the washroom to breathe, do my business, adjust my appearance to maybe look messed up, or to look less attractive than I think I do. Anything to make me look unappealing with a hope that it will take Craig's attention away from me and instead on the front of our class and on the teacher.

Maybe.

I sit down as soon as I enter. He greets me from behind quietly but I ignore him, dragging out my notes from the previous day's class for review, setting out my pencil case and holding my pencil in a shaky hand. Twenty minutes into class goes undisturbed, and then I feel it.

Warmth. The hairs on the back of my neck raise with my shoulders, and I wonder what he's smelling me for this time; it would be his shampoo in my hair today if I had used it. But I can hear his intake of breath and as panic rips through me I dump my belongings off of my desk in one fluid motion and into my bag, slinging it over my shoulder.

I don't ever hear the teacher calling me as I exit the class, sneakers slapping the tiled hallway.

I just run.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: This story is rated M, and this chapter is why. Given the situation, I guess you could call it a spoiler - but this chapter carries a warning for noncon. If you can't handle noncon, skip out on this chapter. You'll pretty much get the rest just with this knowledge. I've never written from this kind of perspective on this situation, so sorry if it's inaccurate (I can safely say I've never raped anyone before and never plan to, so this is kind of foreign ground to me).**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

The instant the awkward moments passed between us in the morning, I realized he knew, but it's not until he is retreating into the hallway do I realize the weight of my own actions.

So I make chase, with the entire class' eyes following me out the door.

I never liked English anyway.

Tearing after him is more of a task than I bargained for, on the account of him being out of the building and half way across the back field toward the woods before I manage to catch up. I'm mostly out of breath. Grabbing his hand, I have the intuition to restrain his other one as well as I back him against a tree, swallowing and standing with him chest to chest.

Violence breaks from him instantly and I manage to dodge a swift kick to the groin with some ballerina-like move.

"Kyle, listen. Listen to me."

"I'm not going to listen to you! You're a fucking CREEP Craig!"

Those words kind of sting a lot more when they come from someone else's mouth, and something in the back of my mind is pining. Something hurts.

"You're such a FREAK! I can't believe you! You blackmailed me into your fucking house so you could fucking - fucking MOLEST me in my sleep! You-"

"Kyle, look. I like you. Just listen to me-"

"No!" Kyle wrenches his arms from my grip at last, backing hard against the tree and shaking his head. "Fuck off. There's something wrong with you."

Like I don't know that. I stare at him and swallow. This is my only chance, really. This is the only shot I've got at maybe trying to convey my emotions into something more than stalkerism. I don't know how or where to explain myself, because there's no reason - but I need to show him how I feel. My resolve is to press our lips together and he goes slightly rigid, fingers curling angrily against my stomach.

He whips his face away, panting open-mouthed before growling something vicious. "Don't!"

I let my teeth graze his neck and he shudders, sinking the heels of his palms against me more violently. "Stop it!"

I ignore his words. The reaction before is enough to tell me he feels something. I move my lips to his ear and get a rise from his breath - and then a punch to the stomach has me doubling over. I grasp my stomach a bit and glance up to see that he hasn't moved. He's staring at me with what I can only read as some amount of horror.

"You're fucking nuts. You're a fucking rapist! Can you not hear me tell you to fucking stop?"

"I never raped anybody." I straighten up again, still with a hand to my torso and a balled fist. "Not yet."

My words take a few seconds for them to process in his head but it's a few seconds too late; my knuckles connect with the side of his skull and he hits the floor of the woods heavily, curling with his arms encasing his head, and I see nothing. My body is moving on it's own accord as I snare his arms with the belt of his book bag and stuff my sweater into his mouth, dragging him by the wrists deeper into the foliage.

He's struggling more violently and grabbing onto things with his legs, mostly because I can feel the tension of his body against branches and bushes more than actually watching. I'm still not seeing anything. A voice in the back of my head is telling me this is wrong, but a voice in the front of my mind doesn't seem to care.

He screams from behind my sweater at me, scrambling to get up as I drop him in a clearing by a fallen tree between a few bushes. His legs are flying and I just watch him a moment as he tires himself out, flipping over onto his stomach and struggling to stand with his arms still bound. I kick his legs out from under him and then let my foot land under his ribs instead, and he drops once more, over the log beside him as he wheezes through his nose.

Pulling the arms of my sweater behind his head, I take a shaky breath and sit on the small of his back in order to hold him down. I press my face into his hair and he whimpers, shoulders starting to shake as I slide my hands up his sides.

This is wrong.

"You're so pretty Kyle, like... it's unbelievable. You're really beautiful. Like, when you were sleeping, honestly... I could watch you forever."

I start to talk, mostly because the silence is scaring me. I don't know what I'm scared of - probably myself, as I undo his pants and pull them down around his ankles, maybe just to restrain his kicking. He's tired himself out, and he's begun to cry. I run both hands over his behind as he hangs over the log, breathing heavily.

"Since... since we're here, I guess I should tell you..."

My hands are trembling. I dig into his book bag and pull out the hand lotion my careful observations have told me he keeps in the back pocket. I treat one finger with it, and run it over his entrance. His flailing starts up again but it's mostly useless under my weight mixed with his binds.

"I do smell your hair every day. And - and only knew you liked that radio station b-because I know you play while you sleep sometimes."

My voice is shakier than my hands are. He arches up with a weak cry behind his gag as I slip a digit in. His aroma keeps my head in place, and I run my free hand over the horizon of his back comfortingly, even though I know in the back of my mind that's not helping. I'm being as gentle as I can be.

"I watch you all the time, because... well, I really like you, and I've liked you since forever. You're collected and shit and - and you're the kind of person I've wanted, because, well, I like things boring..."

I feel sick as I slip another finger in, and lean my face down against the back of his shoulder, feeling him tremble as hard as me. He's a virgin - I remember this from our discussion, somehow. I'm not thinking straight at all. This makes me more nauseous.

"I really, really - I just want you to know that I don't want to hurt you. I'm not a freak. I mean - I mean, I am but... really. I don't want to hurt you. So please just try to be calm..."

This is so wrong.

"I swear. I'm not going to hurt you."

He's silent, and staring, eyes fixed off of me and across our little clearing instead. At some point, I'm guessing I've hitched him up and slipped him back on my hardon. He feels amazing, and I guess it's to be expected. I run my hands down the front of his body uneasily, dipping my hand between his legs. He's half mast, but he's still silent. I think he's somewhere else.

I flip him onto his back in the woods, and his fingers twitch as I slide between his thighs, kissing the naked parts of his upper body, drinking in his taste and smell as I push back into him with more lubrication and start to move.

"I love you... I love you."

Everything about him is intoxicating, from the newly deadened glow of his eyes to the faint sun spots on his cheeks. I run my tongue over his lower lip, trying to imagine that he might respond, but he's for the most part blank. He finally tilts his head away from mine to the side, taking a ragged and panicked breath of a sob as a newly shed tear rolls over one perfect cheekbone. I don't watch it take it's path, instead moving my hands around the lines of his body as it shakes and twitches beneath me with my newfound pace. My head is reeling and I don't see much but white. My mouth begs for some kind of attention, and I loop my finger under the tie of my sweater, removing his gag to turn his head back toward me, tongue greedy for his flavour as it slips into his mouth.

For I moment I think he's responding, and if I _can _get harder, I am now. I realize a moment later that he's trying to say something past my mouth as I fuck him into the forest floor.

"Please." His strained whisper is background noise on my conscience. I try to press my lips on his harder to shut him up. I don't want to heard his words. "Please... Craig... stop."

I don't.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Wheww I'm on a roll here with this story. Hopefully this will be finished within the next two chapters. Thanks for your comments and reviews, it's very encouraging I guess LOL.**

**Enjoy~**

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My walk is long.

_You're not supposed to leave the scene of the crime._

I pass Kenny's house. I pass Stan's house. I pass Cartman's house. I pass my own, backtrack, and enter. My younger brother greets my by the door.

_Tell someone right away if you can._

I ghost by him without a reply.

I run the water for a shower, standing naked in the centre of my bathroom as it heats, misting over the mirror. My reflection is a grainy blur. I pick a leaf out of my hair and step under the water flow; I don't look at what I know are going to be bloodstained boxers and jeans.

_You're not supposed to clean yourself up._

I kneel in the shower. I'm at my limit for standing. Adrenaline is what took me stiffly home. I curl my fingers against the slip mat at the bottom of the tub, taking a shaky breath. The pain in my lower back is a constant. It strains my head, my body.

_You're not supposed to clean yourself up, so that they can check for DNA - check for evidence._

I don't need evidence. I have my evidence. I don't need DNA - I know who did this to me.

I _know _the person who did this to me.

I _know _him.

He's been my classmate since pre-K.

I trusted him.

I stand with effort. I lean into the corner of the shower, pressing my face into the ninety degree angle where tile meets tile, and I don't move there for a long time. My mom knocks through the door for supper. The water's starting to run cold. I turn it off, and return to my place in the middle of the bathroom.

I still feel filthy.

I skip dinner, skip my homework, skip watching television with my brother at nine, skip asking my dad how his day at work was, skip calling Stan. I skip heading to Kenny's to hang out and I skip every evening activity I consider normal except showering. When the water heats up, I do it again.

And again.

And again.

I do my laundry twice. I ignore all my phone calls.

_Go to the hospital right away._

I ignore my family.

_Tell the police everything that happened._

I ignore my friends. I fall asleep in the bathroom against the wall by the sink with a book in my hand and the door locked, because the bathroom has no windows.

_He watches me sleep._

"Kyle!"

_Go away._

"KYLE! Open up! Come on, stop playing camp out! I have to pee!"

I latch the door and Ike jogs in sporting socks and boxers. A sick feeling rises in my stomach and I stare at the wall, while he stares at me. I know he's waiting for me to leave, but I don't want to go to my bedroom.

_He knows what radio station I play in bed, because he watches me sleep._

"Kyle...? Are... are you okay?"

I raise my eyes to Ike's, having completely forgotten my earlier tangent. I nod and step into the hall. I feel agoraphobic. There's dry nerves in my mouth. I want to tell him - I want to tell someone. Anyone. But my lips are sealed; I can't bring myself to speak about it. I'm trying extremely hard to forget it generally.

Ike's head peeks around the corner of the door and he looks up at me and takes my hand, which I shirk away instinctively. He takes it a second time with his grip tighter and starts to lead me away down the hall to the stairs. We travel down them and he guides me to the kitchen. I don't sit with him at the table, and he gives me a funny look.

"Kyle, what the hell happened to you? Are you doing drugs? You can tell me, I promise I won't tell mom."

Not even his childish humor puts a smile on his face. He looks frightened, and I can't blame him. I'd be frightened too, seeing someone act like this. I'd know something was wrong right away, as Ike does.

I sit slowly; there's a shock and ache through my body and I take my mind off of the pain by digging my nails into my knees instead, which is more tolerable. Clenching my teeth, Ike stands in order to get me a glass of water.

"Did you take your insulin?"

I stare up at him and shake my head. He sets it infront of me, and I shakily get to it. He watches me, but I try not to pay attention to it.

"... So are you going to tell me what happened or not?"

"It's nothing. I got into a fight."

"A fight."

"Yeah."

"With who?"

I bite my lip; it's still red and puffy from Craig's teeth. A wave of nausea hits me and I lean over the table, setting my insulin pen down and trying to regain my composure. I can feel the burn of his worried stare.

"Um... I'm not sure. Some freshman."

"You're a terrible liar, you know."

I don't meet his gaze.

"I don't want to talk about it."

Ike's shoulders slump and he returns to his place on the opposite side of the table. "Is it embarrassing?"

I sink my face into my palms, staring between the slivers of vision between my fingers at the table. Humiliating. Try humiliating.

"Yeah," I say, a crackle to my voice. Ike's confusion is almost as good as an aroma. I shake my head. "Stop asking about it, okay? I'm serious. I'm fine."

I don't feel bad about his disheartened expression. I know he's trying to help, but it's none of his business; it's no one's business. I put on a mask of relaxation. I lift my arms. "Come here. It's cool."

He's easily reassured, and crosses around the table, lacing his arms around me. I take a sharp breath over his shoulder, trying hard not to recoil from him. I know I'm hugging my little brother, but I can feel those hands on me. I can feel nails marring my skin under my clothing, and the rawness of my own book bag's strap on my wrists. I feel the dirt and sticks and leaves and stones pressing into my back through my t-shirt and feel that mouth over mine. I hold my brother; I hold my breath, and he lets go.

My smile doesn't waver as he jogs up the stairs with a goodnight following him, and I stare back down at my medicine and my glass of water. I do what I need to with both.

The inside of my stomach scrapes from its starvation, and I raid the refrigerator, pulling out no more than an apple to satisfy the cramp of my insides. My legs are weak and my head is tired. I enter the livingroom and click on the television, laying on my side and trying to get comfortable. Everything is comfortable now. Comfortable, but boring.

Boring...

My half lidded eyes dance with my half-awake dreams as the telemarketers throw their midnight pitches, and my mouth hangs open a bit. I feel all this but I don't really think about it as sleep creeps its tendrils around me temptingly.

_"You're so pretty Kyle, like... it's unbelievable. You're really beautiful. Like, when you were sleeping, honestly... I could watch you forever."_

_His hands glide over my ass and I know what's going to happen. It all makes sense and I start to sob._

_"Since... since we're here, I guess I should tell you..."_

_He trifles through my things, sitting on my back. There is gray space in my memory._

_"I do smell your hair every day. And - and only knew you liked that radio station b-because I know you play it while you sleep sometimes."_

_More grey space._

_"I watch you all the time, because... well, I really like you, and I've liked you since forever. You're collected and shit and - and you're the kind of person I've wanted, because, well, I like things boring..."_

_Boring._

I sit up, wide awake, at full attention. I watch Ellen Degeneres as she dances on stage during her rerun without actually seeing her, and dampen my lips as I slide my hand over my stomach, moving downward.

_"I really, really - I just want you to know that I don't want to hurt you. I'm not a freak. I mean - I mean, I am but... really. I don't want to hurt you. So please just try to be calm..."_

_This is so wrong. Grey space._

_"I swear. I'm not going to hurt you."_

_Grey space, grey space, grey space._

_"I love you. I love you."_

I feel the white fluid from my own body stick between my fingers, staring at the silhouette of my hand against the screen of the TV, and begin to cry.


End file.
